The book was meant to celebrate anger and activism in the kitchen. While it may do that, it also ignited a conversation on social media about race, appropriation, feminism and marketing.
Tejal Rao. NYT.
Baking rage is a real thing.
I have it all the time.
In fact, I'm approaching a rage right now.
I'm making chicken curry with eggplant
and turnips today.
A big pot on my stove, with a Japanese
paste from the local Asian market
for the roux.
Also a cooker full of rice.
And kimchi and peach jello on the side.
Sunday afternoons are so
tediously unfair.
There's nothing to do
after church.
Not for an old single guy like me.
So I cook. I bake. I fry.
Trying to recapture memories
of when I was married
and we had eight kids.
I made a lot of casseroles back then.
The kids ate everything I made.
Today, they're all on different diets.
Organic. Keto. Paleo. Vegan.
Bah!
They never come over to eat
at my apartment.
So I cook for all the old ladies
in my building.
Serving it up in the community room
on card tables.
And today I'm making the Japanese chicken curry
as spicy as hell.
That's how I vent my towering rage.
I make their eyes water.
Their tongues wheeze.
Their blouses turn dark with sweat.
And still they come.
They dearly love a free meal;
one they don't have to cook themselves.
And they call me a great guy.
And they bring me canisters of oatmeal;
bags of long grain rice; and boxes of brownie mix.
So I feel obligated to make more meals.
It's a vicious simmering circle.
I'm saving an open box of ginger snaps
until it's as stale and hard as concrete.
Then I'll put it out
to watch
them crack their dentures.
And I will find peace
at last.
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